How did Maharana Pratap’s childhood prepare him to be a king? A new book looks beyond the battles

As Prince Pratap grew up, however, it must have become as obvious to him as it was to the palace zenana that, while he was the eldest son of the Mewar ruler, he was not the favourite. That place belonged to one of Pratap’s younger half- brothers, Prince Jagmal – the ninth of Maharana Udai Singh’s sons. Jagmal’s Bhati clan mother, “Bhattiyani Rani” Dheer Bai, was the queen of Rana Udai Singh’s heart.

Polygamy was common for the male warrior elite of the period, with matrimonial alliances often based on political expediency and clan alignments. However, while Rajput men could have several wives, Rajput women married only once, and if widowed – as often happened in an age that resorted to swords and daggers as swiftly as words to resolve problems – they could not re-marry. It is not recorded what the young prince Pratap thought about his mother’s position vis- à-vis his Bhati clan stepmother, or indeed, about his other stepmothers.

In time, Pratap himself would have eleven wives and seventeen sons, but in keeping with the norms of his times, little would get recorded and publicly shared about the appearance, personality or private lives of his wives and five daughters.

His first marriage to Ajabde Kanwar Parmar whose family held the fiefdom of Bijoliya, took place when he was about seventeen. She is popularly believed to have been a childhood friend and his lifelong true love. She became the mother of their eldest son, Prince Amar Singh (who would later rule Mewar as Amar Singh I) on 16 March 1559, and after Pratap’s accession to the throne, formally held the title of “Maharani”.

Pratap’s early childhood was spent mainly at Kumbhalgarh. Built on the site of an earlier fort by his ancestor Maharana Kumbha (r 1433–68 CE), Kumbhalgarh was Mewar’s most impregnable fort, and one of the many places of refuge for its rulers. Perched over 1000 metres high on the Aravalli hills, its massive perimeter walls run for 36 km and in places are so thick that eight horsemen could ride abreast along the walls. Kumbhalgarh stood between Mewar and the neighbouring kingdom of Marwar, affording spectacular 360-degree views of the surrounding countryside. (Of course, borders were fluid in those days, and frequently Mewar’s territories extended into what is traditionally considered Marwar today, and vice versa.)

Within the forts of Kumbhalgarh, Chittor, and wherever else Pratap went when Maharana Udai Singh’s entourage included him, his days were full. There were plenty of companions within the palaces and raolas (royal quarters), as well as in nearby village homesteads, and among the Bhils and Garasias who lived in the forests. As he grew up, young Pratap had friends from all the different castes and tribal kinship groups around him, and these close relationships continued throughout his life.

It was a trait that would not only make him a remarkable leader but also be of immense help to him in the years of hardship in the future – years during which his very life depended on the safety net provided by hill and forest dwellers whose loyalty he had won in preceding decades. The Bhil boys had shown him how to walk silently through the dense forests when stalking prey, how to camouflage oneself, and what wild plants were good to eat. They also familiarised him with the hidden tracks and caves in the thickly wooded hills of Mewar. He never forgot these lessons learnt in his boyhood.

Pratap also received the education traditionally seen as suitable for a Rajput prince.This included lessons in ethics and morality, the study of religious texts, Sanskrit, mathematics, astronomy, etiquette, music and appreciation of other arts as well as principles of governance and administration and, of course, the code of a warrior.

Lessons in warfare, weapons and horses were considered an essential part of a prince’s education, and Pratap and his brothers had more than one teacher to instruct them on traditional battle formations, military strategy and tactics, and the skills of the hunt and chase.

Then, there were lessons in swordplay, archery, and handling staffs and spears. Hours were spent holding metal or wooden Mewari shields in one hand, and a weapon in the other, often wearing armour or other protective gear that made Pratap and his fellow sufferers hot and uncomfortable. The young Mewar princes also held contests over who could throw the heavy locally made spears with their broad iron blades the farthest.

Alongside jousting with spears and wooden staffs, and the use of various weapons, Prince Pratap also learned how to care for his own horses. Hunting – variously called akhet or shikar – and horseback sport like chaugan, akin to modern polo – were not just regarded as sport or leisure activities but an important part of a prince’s education. Horses were crucial in an age when much of the fighting was done on horseback. Mustering cavalry units, howsoever small, was as vital as mustering men-at-arms from small fief holders.

Young Pratap was taught how to recognise good points in horses, how to spot faults, and how to treat equine ailments with herbs. He learnt all this from teachers and through personal observation, but also by studying the many portable illustrated manuals known as Shalihotra, which focused on horses and were popular at Rajput courts by this time. Pratap would own many horses in his life, and much later, one of them would join his master at the battle of Haldighati, and become immortalised as Pratap’s favourite horse, Chetak.

The romantic vision of valour, the tales of warriors who preferred death to dishonour, that Pratap had imbibed from the bards at court and even from the women of the zenana, would eventually be tempered somewhat – though by no means erased – by the brutal realities of his experiences in blood-soaked battlefields. But through participation in hunts and military expeditions from a very young age, the prince would, like other warriors, learn to overcome fear while facing an enemy, or at least hide his fear from the world.

In whichever fort the Mewar ruler and his court were staying, the days would dawn and end with the offering of prayers at one of the shrines. In the evenings, as darkness fell, the members of the royal family and their attendants would gather in a hall. Large platters and trays holding small earthen and metal lamps containing oil with wicks made of either twisted cotton, or semul cotton tree yarn, or old cloth, would be brought in. After everyone had saluted the light, and heard a devotional song or two, the royal family, the courtiers, and particularly the children, would settle down to listen to either music from court singers and visiting artists, or stories about bygone days.

Both the music performances and the stories were at times thrilling accounts of victory and valour, and courage in the face of danger, and sometimes evocative of sadness as they told of sacrifice and tragedy in order to uphold the values of duty, justice, honour and responsibility.

The recitals would keep all the listeners, young and old, spellbound, despite well-known tales being retold for the umpteenth time. Through these evening sessions of music and storytelling, Pratap and his brothers and sisters learnt the history of their ancestors, and the ancestors of many of the other kingdoms that were at that time Mewar’s friends or foes.

Sometimes the bards or singers were local ones, and on other occasions there would be performers and bards from other areas who had won fame or renown, or else wished to do so at Mewar’s court. Once a famous bard, who was from the community of genealogy keepers called Charans, had requested that all weapons be left outside the audience hall where the ruler and his family and courtiers were sitting. Pratap and his brothers and half-brothers had rolled their eyes at what they saw as pretentious behaviour on the part of the old bard. The recital began. The whole court became engrossed. No one could later be sure of how it had happened, but at a particular passage, Pratap found his own sword arm, and that of everyone around him, had involuntarily flown to his empty sheath – so evocative and stirring had been the scene created by the bard’s words.

Excerpted with permission from Maharana Pratap: The Invincible Warrior, Rima Hooja, Juggernaut.